CHAPTER XIII
HOW MADAME JACQUELINE WAS GRAVELY PUZZLED
Old Nicolle and the women had known how to hold their tongues, so had Madame Jacqueline's torch-bearer. Indiscretion these days, where the affairs of noble gentlemen were concerned, was apt to bring terrible reprisals in its train. And above all, M. le Marquis de Landas was not a gentleman to be trifled with. If he desired secrecy, secrecy he would have, and woe betide the unfortunates who had not known how to hold their tongue.
Nicolle, aided by Maria and Bertine—two of Madame's most trustworthy serving-maids—had done their best to tend the wounds of the noble seigneurs, while the torch-bearer was despatched to their respective houses to summon immediate assistance. Messire de Borel was wealthy, owned horses and had an army of servants; the Comte du Prêt lived in a fine palace on the Place Verte, and the Seigneur de Maarege in the Rue St. George.
It was all done very quickly and very discreetly. Monseigneur the governor was never meant to know what had occurred in his Palace that night; servants came and went on tiptoe; the night watchmen had anyhow been bribed to secrecy. Martin et Martine at the Town Hall had only chimed the second hour of the morning and already the six young gallants had been conveyed back to their homes; the boudoir was locked up and the key given in charge of the night watchmen, who would see that order there was once more restored.
Jacqueline never deserted her self-appointed post until she was satisfied that the last vestige of that awful scuffle had been effectually obliterated. She helped Nicolle and her women to dress the wounds of the young seigneurs; she remained by de Landas' side until she saw him safely in the stalwart arms of his own henchmen. It was amazing how a girl, so young and so inexperienced, was able to give directions and to keep her head through this amazingly trying time. She had broken down once, when Gilles had thrown the masks at her feet; but directly he had gone she recovered herself, and from that moment everything was done at her command. Nicolle and the women, who were on the verge of losing their heads—of screaming and falling into a panic, were soon restored to order and efficiency by Madame's coolness and by her courage.
Jacqueline never flinched, nor did she ask any questions. She was affectionate with de Landas and gentle to all, but evidently her one care was to keep this miserable affair a secret from her guardian.
On the other hand, I, for one, am not going to say that Gilles de Crohin was not a sick man on the following morning, when he managed to crawl out of bed and to dress himself, inwardly cursing the absence of his faithful Jehan. He made light of 'scratches,' but he had no fewer than five about his body, and the flesh wound in his thigh was exceedingly unpleasant. He had sat moodily in his narrow room for some time, vaguely wondering what in the world he was to do with himself, or whether Madame Jacqueline would ever care to set eyes on him again.
He was smarting under the sense of injustice. What right had she to look on him as a braggart who would pay a set of knaves to help him in his quarrels? The feeling of insensate jealousy which was gnawing at his heart was still more unpleasant to bear. He almost understood de Landas' hatred of himself after the episode in the banqueting hall, for he—Gilles—was at this moment experiencing just that same torturing jealousy, which had caused de Landas to outrage every canon of chivalry and honour for the sake of getting even with an execrated rival.
In fact, neither his mental nor his physical condition was in an enviable state when a runner arrived that morning at 'Les Trois Rois' and asked for leave to speak with Messire Gilles de Crohin, equerry to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont.
Gilles, a little bewildered by this unexpected occurrence, met the runner in the taproom of the hostelry. Somewhat curtly, he told the man that Monseigneur le Prince was sick, and that he—Gilles—was in attendance on his master. But the messenger appeared in no way disconcerted at the rebuff; he seemed to have received instructions that would cover every eventuality.
'Monseigneur the governor,' he said, 'had heard a rumour that His Magnificence was sick. Therefore he begged that Messire de Crohin would forthwith come over to the Palace and reassure him as to the condition of his master, Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont.'
The runner had long disappeared down the Rue aux Juifs and Gilles de Crohin was still standing in the middle of the taproom, clutching his chin with his hand in a state of most unenviable perturbation. A very severe test on his histrionic powers was about to be imposed upon him. Monseigneur's desire—nay! his command—could not be disregarded. He—Gilles—must present himself at the Palace just as he was—playing no rôle this time, save that of striving to obliterate all similarity between himself as he really was and would be to-day, and himself as he had been in Monseigneur's sight during the past five days.
No wonder that at the prospect he too—like Jehan last night—felt cold drops of sweat rising to the roots of his hair. I will not say that the thought of seeing Madame Jacqueline again, if he went to the Palace, did not in a measure give him courage; but even that courage was only fictitious, because in all probability she would scarce vouchsafe to look on the servant, seeing that her heart was filled with hatred and contempt for the master.
Nevertheless, he was at the Palace less than an hour later. Monseigneur was very gracious, and apparently not the least suspicious. He only expressed regret that it had not been his good fortune to meet Messire Gilles de Crohin ere this. On the other hand, his apologies for what had occurred the night before inside his own Palace were both profuse and humble—almost abject.
'I beg you, Messire,' he said earnestly, at the close of the interview, 'to assure Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou that I would give ten years of my life—and I have not many left to give—to undo the mischief wrought by a few young nincompoops. I can but hope that His Highness will exonerate me from any negligence or want of understanding in the matter.'
By this time Gilles was mentally quite at his ease. If his thigh was painful, he had nevertheless managed to walk into Monseigneur's presence without a limp, and to all appearances his host was at this hour very far from suspecting the slightest fraud.
'His Highness,' he said lightly, 'will recover from his scratches within the next day or two. The whole matter is unworthy of Monseigneur's anxiety.'
After which assurance, and mutual protestations of esteem and good-will, Gilles was allowed to take his leave.
Being a personage of no consequence, Messire Gilles de Crohin, equerry to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, was not escorted to the gates by an army of ushers; rather was he allowed to find his way out as best he could. The interview with Monseigneur had taken place in a room on a floor above, and he was walking slowly along one of the wide corridors which, if memory served him, would lead him to the grand staircase. On his right the tall, deep-embrasured windows gave on the magnificent park which, with its stately trees still dressed in winter garb, lay bathed in the sunlight of this early spring day.
He paused just for a moment, looking over the park at the rich panorama of the city. The window nearest to him was slightly open, and the south-westerly breeze was apparently stirring the heavy curtains in front of it. From somewhere close by there came gently wafted the delicious penetrating fragrance of lilies. Was it a wonder that Gilles' thoughts should at once have flown to Jacqueline? and that an uncontrollable ache should suddenly grip his heart?
Throughout his long adventurous life he had seen so many women—had kissed a few, and loved none; and now Fate had placed in his path just the one woman in the whole wide world whom at first sight he had loved with unbounded passion, and who was as far removed from him as was the gold-crowned steeple of St. Géry far away, and infinitely more unattainable. For the first time in his life Gilles had looked into a woman's eyes, felt that they held in their depths a promise of paradise, only to realize that that promise could never be made to him.
The scent of the lilies brought with it a murmur of spring, of awakening nature, of twitter of birds, and the man who listened to that murmur, who thrilled at its insistent call, knew that he must for ever remain lonely, that the call of springtide for him must for ever remain unsatisfied.
Standing there alone, he was not ashamed of his emotion, not ashamed that hot tears welled up involuntarily to his eyes. But with a half-impatient gesture and a smile at his own folly, he brushed these with his hand resolutely away.
When the mist of tears was cleared from his eyes, he suddenly saw her—his dream—standing before him. She was in the window embrasure, with the flood of sunshine wrapping her like a mantle of gold. On the window sill beside her lay a bunch of white lilies. Her little hand—Gilles thought he had never seen such an exquisite little hand—held back the curtain, behind which she had apparently been sitting. A soft breeze blew in through the half-open window and stirred with its delicate breath the soft tendrils of her ardent hair. Her face against the light was in a tender, grey shadow, through which her eyes shone like a peep of azure sky, and on her cheek that tiny mole was provocatively asking for a kiss.
The apparition had come upon Gilles so suddenly, the transition from dark melancholy to joy was so abrupt, that he—poor man!—weak, sick, unnerved by weariness and constant strain, not only found nothing to say, but he clean forgot all the amenities of social life which the equerry of a prince of the House of Valois should have had at his finger-tips.
Jacqueline, too, strangely enough, felt embarrassed for the moment, angry with herself for being tongue-tied. What was there to be confused about? Messire Gilles de Crohin could not possibly guess that she had been sitting here in the window embrasure, waiting to see him pass, just because she desired to have news of his master. He could not guess that it had taken all her reserves of diplomacy to so explain to Monseigneur when he questioned her, what she knew of the events of the past night that, without being greatly angered against M. de Landas, he should feel sufficient compunction to send promptly for news of Messire le Prince de Froidmont. Certainly Messire's equerry could not guess that Madame Jacqueline's heart had been touched and her mind tickled when Monseigneur placed before her the naïve effusion of Maître Jehan, and that her own common sense and unerring feeling for justice had filled in the gaps which the worthy servant's missive had left in his exposé of what had actually occurred.
Therefore it was not the fear of what Messire de Crohin might think or guess that kept Jacqueline momentarily speechless and shy, rather was it a curious and undefinable sense of something strange—familiar yet mysterious—about the personality of this man who stood, equally silent, before her. It took her several seconds to free herself from this spell which appeared to have been cast over her, several seconds of fighting angrily with herself for the constraint which rendered her tongue-tied and shy. Fortunately he appeared quite unaware of her embarrassment, waited somewhat awkwardly, she thought, for her to speak.
'You are Messire de Crohin?' she contrived to say at last.
'At your service, Madame,' he replied.
'Equerry to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?'
He bowed in affirmative response.
'And ... I have no doubt ... devoted to his person?'
He smiled.
'Why should Madame conclude that?' he asked.
She gave a little start. Somehow his tone—that bantering smile, had accentuated that feeling of familiarity which rendered his person so strangely mysterious.
'Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont,' she rejoined coldly, 'is sure to command the devotion of those who serve him. He is brave and chivalrous——'
'That was not Madame's opinion of him last night——' he broke in dryly. Then, seeing that his tone had caused her to turn her eyes on him with unfeigned surprise he added somewhat lamely: 'At least ... that is ... that is what Monseigneur gave me to understand last night——'
'It was all a misunderstanding,' she said gently. 'Will you say that to Monseigneur?'
'If Madame desires.'
'I do desire it. And since you know all about the incident, Messire, will you, I pray you, tell your master how deeply I regret the erroneous judgment which I formed of his conduct? Those abominable varlets all crowding round him——'
'Appearances were against Monseigneur, no doubt.'
'And I behaved like a vixen, Messire,' she said with a smile.
'Then give me an army of vixens!' he retorted impulsively.
'Why, Messire, you were not there to see——'
'No! But I imagine now that vixens must be adorable.'
'Do not jest, Messire,' she rejoined more earnestly. 'I was shrewish last night and ill-tempered and unjust. Will you tell your master that this morning——'
'I will tell him, Madame, that this morning you are perfect, whatever you may have been last night.'
Poor Gilles by now would have given all that he possessed in the world to be allowed to go. He felt that this interview, which he had neither sought nor hoped for, was like a dangerous trap into which Fate and his own temperament might hurl him headlong. Every minute that he spent in this woman's company rendered her more desirable to him, rendered him more completely a slave to her charm. But for some strange and subtle reason she seemed disinclined to let him go just yet, and even now when, remembering his best manners, Gilles started on the preliminaries of a most elaborate farewell bow, she went on with a quick catching of her breath and a slight hesitation, which brought a soft glow to her cheeks:
'Messire Gilles——'
'At your service, Madame.'
'Was Monseigneur de Froidmont very angered with me?'
'He was,' Gilles admitted, 'last night.'
"But ... but....'
'His anger hath since melted like snow in the spring.'
'Even before you came hither at the bidding of my guardian?'
'Even before that, Madame.'
'Did he tell you so?'
'I guessed it.'
'Do you know his innermost thoughts, then?'
'Most of them—yes, Madame.'
'You are very intimate with Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?' she asked, with a certain shy hesitancy which Gilles found adorable, because it caused a delicate flush of pink to suffuse her cheeks. This caused him, in his turn, to be confused and tongue-tied, staring at her with eyes that seemed as if they would devour her loveliness.
She had to repeat her question.
'Oh!—ah!—er!' he stammered vaguely. 'That is—yes! Yes, Madame! I am on ultimate terms with Monseigneur.'
'And—do tell me, Messire—is Monseigneur handsome?'
'No, by the Lord!' exclaimed Gilles with a loud laugh. Then he caught her look: it was not one of surprise, rather of amusement not unmixed with quaint, roguish mischief. He could not interpret that look rightly, and began to stammer, worse confused than before.
'Madame—I—that is——'
'You are no judge of your master's looks, shall we say?' she retorted with an enigmatic little smile. 'But you must remember that, though I found Monseigneur of noble bearing, I have no notion how he looks, for I have never seen him without a mask—that is——'
This time Gilles was quite sure that she was doing her best to suppress a laugh.
'Do you think,' she said, 'that you could persuade His Magnificence to pay his respects to me unmasked?'
'Monseigneur will, I feel sure,' he rejoined stiffly, 'be honoured by the command, but——'
'But what, Messire?'
'He is strangely ill-favoured, Madame.'
'Oh! a woman is the best judge of that. Some of the ugliest men have proved most attractive.'
'But—but Monseigneur is scarred—badly scarred. He——'
'What matter? There is naught so glorious as scars on a soldier's face. When I was a child I once saw the Duc de Guise—le Balafré! With that great cut across his cheek, he was still the most notable man in a room filled to overflowing with clever, brave and handsome men!'
'But—but, Madame, Monseigneur is also pock-marked. Yes, that's it! Pock-marked! An illness contracted in early childhood—Madame understands?'
'I do,' she replied with a little sigh of sympathy, and looked with those enchanting blue eyes of hers straight on poor Gilles. 'I do. It is very sad.'
'Very sad indeed, Madame.'
'Scarred and pock-marked. No wonder Monseigneur is shy to show his face. But no matter,' she continued gaily. 'He hath such a lovely voice, and oh! such beautiful hands! Slender and full of nerve and power! I always take note of hands, Messire,' she said with well-feigned ingenuousness. 'They indicate a man's character almost more than his face. Do you not think, so too?'
'I—Madame—that is——'
Gilles had, quite instinctively, drawn the lace of his sleeve over his left hand, even while Madame still looked at him with that tantalizing glance which had the effect of turning his brain to putty and his knees to pulp. Now she laughed—that merry, rippling laugh of hers—and I do verily assure you that the poor man was on the verge of making a complete fool of himself. Indeed, it were difficult to say whether or no the next second would have witnessed his complete surrender to Jacqueline's magic charm, his total loss of self-control and the complete downfall of Madame la Reyne de Navarre's cherished plan, for poor Gilles had lost consciousness of every other feeling and thought save that of a wild longing to fall on his knees and to kiss the tiny foot which peeped beneath the hem of that exquisite woman's gown, a wild longing, too, to hold out his arms and to fold her to his breast, to kiss her hair, her eyes, her lips, that tiny mole which had wrought the whole mischief with his soul. For the moment he forgot his past life, his present position, the Duc d'Anjou and Madame la Reyne: he had forgotten that he was a penniless adventurer, paid to play an unworthy trick upon this innocent girl, sworn to infamy on pain of greater infamy still! He had forgotten everything save that she was adorable and that an altogether new and ardent love had taken possession of his soul.
Of a truth it is impossible for a prosy chronicler to state definitely what might have happened then, if Monseigneur the governor had not chosen that very moment for coming out of his room and walking down the corridor, at one end of which Gilles was standing spell-bound before the living presentment of his dream of long ago. He heard Monseigneur's heavy footstep, pulled himself vigorously together, and with an impatient gesture which was habitual to him, he passed his left hand slowly across his forehead.
When he looked on Jacqueline again she was staring at him with an expression that appeared almost scared and wholly bewildered, and with a strange, puzzled frown upon her smooth forehead. For the space of a second or two it seemed as if she wanted to say something, then held back the words. After a slight hesitation, however, she finally went forward a step or two to meet her guardian, without looking again on Gilles.
'I was glad,' she said quietly to d'Inchy, 'to have had an opportunity of seeing Messire de Crohin and of begging him to offer to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, his master, my sincere regrets for what occurred last night.'
'Messire has already assured me,' rejoined d'Inchy suavely, 'that Monseigneur harbours no resentment against any of us. Is that not so, Messire?'
'Indeed it is, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles stiffly. 'Whatever Monseigneur may have felt last night, I in his name do assure you that at this hour the incident of last night hath faded from his memory.'
He bowed now, ready to take his leave. But Jacqueline was apparently not yet ready to dismiss him. Something had gravely puzzled her, that was clear; and it was that something which seemingly made her loth to let him go.
'What, think you, Messire,' she said abruptly, 'caused Monseigneur to forget his resentment so quickly?'
'A journey, Madame,' he replied, looking her boldly between the eyes this time, 'which his thoughts took skywards, astride upon a sunbeam.'
She smiled.
'And did Monseigneur's thoughts wander far on that perilous journey?'
'As far as the unknown, Madame.'
'The unknown? Where is that?'
'There where we sow our dreams.'
'Where we sow our dreams? You speak in metaphors, Messire. If, as you say, we sow our dreams, what do we reap?'
'A perfect being such as you, Madame, can only reap joy and happiness.'
'But you, Messire?'
'Oh, I, Madame!' he replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. 'What can a poor soldier of fortune garner from a crop of dreams save a bunch of memories?'
'Happy memories, I trust,' she said gently, as she finally extended her dainty hand for his kiss.
'Happiness is such an ephemeral flower, Madame: memory is its lasting perfume.'
For one brief moment her exquisite little hand, white, soft and tensely alive, like the petals of a fragrant lily, lay upon his own: for one brief moment of unalloyed happiness his lips rested upon her finger-tips, and he felt them quivering beneath his kiss, as if something of the passion which was searing his heart had been communicated to her through that kiss.
The moment went by like a flash: the next, Monsieur le Baron d'Inchy was already bidding him farewell with many an unctuous word, which Gilles never even heard. He had eyes and ears only for Jacqueline—Jacqueline, whom he had seen and loved at first sight, when she had been alternately proud and dignified, demure and arch, reproachful and contemptuous; but before whom he could now bend the knee in adoration when a softened mood filled her eyes with tears and caused her perfect lips to quiver with unexpressed sympathy.
'I entreat you, Messire,' she said finally, 'when you return to your master, to urge upon him the necessity of extreme prudence. Strangers are none too welcome in Cambray these days, and Monseigneur de Froidmont hath already made many enemies, some of whom are unscrupulous, others merely hot-headed; but all, alas! dangerous. Guard him with your life, Messire,' she urged, with a quaint little catch in her throat. 'And, above all, I pray you to assure him that Jacqueline de Broyart would give much to undo the miserable work of the past night.'
She bowed her head in token that he was dismissed at last, and he—poor wretch!—could not at that moment have uttered a single word in response, for his throat was choked and his very sinews ached with the effort to appear calm and unconcerned before Monseigneur the governor.
So, I fear me, that Gilles de Crohin defied every social rule laid down by the aforesaid Maître Calviac, and that Monseigneur the governor was seriously shocked when he saw a mere equerry taking an unduly hasty leave from himself and from Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, who was Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse, in rank far above any Sire de Crohin.
Monseigneur d'Inchy gave a quick sigh of impatience. The comedy invented by the Queen of Navarre was beginning to tax his powers of endurance heavily. Were it not for the great issues at stake, he would never have humbled himself before any man as he had done before a profligate Valois prince who was not worthy to lick the dust that stained Madame Jacqueline's velvet shoes. He looked down with conscious pride on his beautiful ward, more beautiful at this moment, he thought, than she had ever looked before. She was gazing straight down the length of the corridor; her lips were parted in an enigmatic smile which greatly puzzled her old guardian, a soft blush mantled over her cheeks and throat, and as she gazed—on nothing seemingly—her blue eyes shone with a strange, inward excitement.
And yet, all that there was to see down the corridor was the retreating figure of that somewhat ill-mannered equerry, Messire Gilles de Crohin.